


Candy Hearts Disappeared

by Alcoholic_Kangaroo



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Blood, Cheating, Doomed Relationship, Drug Abuse, M/M, Sex, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:27:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29018199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alcoholic_Kangaroo/pseuds/Alcoholic_Kangaroo
Summary: Drake and Launchpad are in a doomed relationship. Sometimes people just grow apart over the years.
Relationships: Drake Mallard/Launchpad McQuack
Comments: 12
Kudos: 21





	Candy Hearts Disappeared

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the song. It's some random song I found on YouTube years ago and I think it's the only version of it anywhere in existence? I don't know man. It's mushy and I really like it for some damn reason.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m1f_OZjY1Nk&t=7s&ab_channel=number1cantuc

_Life was simple way back then_

_ When candy hearts made promises _

_ They used to make you blush _

_ Which always made me smile _

* * *

Waking up to the aroma of freshly ground coffee and searing bacon is one of life’s most simple yet satisfying pleasures. The patter of cold autumn rain hitting in large, fat droplets against the window paints the air with an aura of cozy nostalgia. The smell of sheets soaked with the scent of his lover just sweetens the deal. It would have been nice if Launchpad had been there beside him, his embrace loose yet as strong as iron chains. But there is something to be said about that old adage regarding absence and the heart. Every moment Drake lounges in bed, appreciating the softness of the cool sheets, inhaling the smell of Launchpad’s familiar yet questionable body spray on the pillow, increases the aching in his chest. The bittersweet longing to be near him is as painful as it is beautiful.

Only when the longing becomes so pronounced that it has morphed into a suffocating knot in the back of his throat, does Drake wrap his dressing gown around his naked form and follow the scent of breakfast foods to the tower’s small kitchen.

Launchpad doesn’t witness his arrival; his back is turned away from him. He’s standing over the stove, turning sizzling bacon with Drake’s guitar-shaped spatula, wearing nothing but a pair of heart-patterned boxer shorts that Drake had given him as a gag gift on his 35th birthday. They fit him far too snuggly; it really is difficult to find clothes for such a giant of a man, and Drake is nearly ready to drag him back to bed at the sight of his barely concealed backside greeting him this early in the morning, bacon be damned.

As usual, Launchpad can just sense he’s there, no matter how quietly Drake lurks. He sets the spatula on a plate to the side and turns to greet Drake with a kiss on the forehead.

“Morning babe, breakfast will be done in a minute.”

Fresh from their rumpled sheets, he reeks of sex and hasn’t bothered to shower or even attempted to tame his tangled locks. His overgrown head of hair wild, fluffed out in all directions, brings a warm flush to Drake’s face. Remnants of their post-patrol carnality. He can almost feel the softness of the red feathers as he had clutched at them this morning, the image of the trusting green eyes staring up at him as he thrust up into the heat of his mouth.

“I already know what I want inside me, and it isn’t bacon,” Drake says, voice husky even as he forces himself to quash the laughter ready to spill forth from inside him. This is one of his favorite games, the horribly cliché come-ons; sometimes they’re too bad to not laugh at. Drake has an entire booklet of them he keeps hidden in his underwear drawer but Launchpad doesn’t laugh this morning. “Turn off the stove and come back to bed.”

“I, uh,” Launchpad stumbles over his words, flustered. He’s staring at Drake as if he were an entire breakfast buffet. “But the, the eggs will get cold.”

“I’m not big on eggs, anyway,” Drake purrs like one of those girls in those cheesy 60s spy movies Launchpad likes to watch whenever he catches them on TV. “Rather have a nice, big sausage.”

He smiles when Launchpad does laugh at this joke. Or maybe he's laughing at the faux-seductive purr. He leaves the bacon in the pan but moves it to a cool burner, just in case, double-checking to make sure the other burner is switched off.

It’s slower than it was in the pre-dawn hours, less desperate, but no less passionate. Launchpad takes him face to face, Drake’s legs thrown over his shoulders, his deep, lazy thrusts interspersed with long kisses and brief professions of love. Afterward, he jumps spryly from the bed and disappears from the room, calling back over his shoulder something about a towel. Dizzy still with pleasure, Drake turns onto his stomach and reaches for a half-empty bottle of water on the nightstand. He’s damp with sweat and splattered semen; his legs are like jelly. He chugs the water down, feeling about as dehydrated as a desert plant.

When he returns, Launchpad wipes him down as if he were a prized racehorse.

“You okay?” Launchpad asks, dropping onto the bed beside him. He’s so large the motion causes the bed to bounce several times before settling once more.

“I’m good,” Drake confirms, voice lazy, drawling. He crumples the bottle between his hands and tosses it onto the floor. Then he stretches his entire body out, his back cracking, shoulders popping. Body loose and sleek as a big cat, he collapses lazily back onto the sheets. “Great, even. I don’t think I’ve ever been more comfortable in my life. I might just lie here the rest of my life.”

“After all that work I put into breakfast?” Launchpad complains, kicking at one of Drake’s feet. “Well, lie still, I brought dessert with me.”

Dessert? Who serves dessert at breakfast?

At first, Drake isn’t sure what he’s doing. Launchpad’s chest pressing against his back is familiar at this point, but he is being careful not to press him into the mattress as he leans across him. Drake’s hand is lying flat on the mattress just inches from his face, but it takes a minute to comprehend. Launchpad carefully places small, colorful pieces of…something onto the back of his hand. Erasers? Beads? No. Candy. He struggles to sit up with his lover still lying across him.

“Stay still,” Launchpad reprimands with a quick slap on his ass. It startles Drake, nearly sending him into the air if not for Launchpad’s weight pressing him down. “I’m not done yet. You can read them when I’m done.”

Read them. That’s when it clicks.

“Candy hearts?” Drake chuckles when he realizes what type of candy Launchpad is playing with as if he were a toddler with a set of building blocks. Disobeying his lover’s instruction, Drake rises slowly, careful not to move his hand, and upset the larger heart that Launchpad is forming with the smaller one. Launchpad climbs off of him so that Drake can sit up, sitting on the bed with his legs crossed beneath him as he continues his little project. “It’s October, where did you get candy hearts in October?”

“I have my sources,” Launchpad smiles. He’s finished the outline of the larger heart and begins to fill it with more of the little colorful candies. Purple, pink, blue, orange, green. Drake begins to read the words on them out loud, commenting on them as he does so.

“ _Be mine_ ,” Drake reads. “Already are. _I heart you_. Well, I knew that. _Hot stuff_. Yes, yes I am. Thank you for noticing. _Only you_. I better damn well better be. _Forever_. Obviously. _Kiss me_.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Launchpad interrupts, leaning down to do so. Reflexively, Drake reaches up to wrap his arms around Launchpad’s neck, sending the hearts flying across the bed. A few clatter across the floor, rolling away and disappearing from sight.

“Hey!” Launchpad objects when they part once more. “I put a lot of work into that!”

“They’re candies, not Lego blocks,” Drake informs him, already gathering the pieces of candy from the sheets. “You’re supposed to eat them, not build with them. Lie down on your back. No, not there, in the middle of the bed.”

He climbs onto Launchpad’s waist, straddling him as he reaches for the half-empty box abandoned on the mattress.

“Are you going to feed me?” Launchpad asks, smiling up at the smaller duck. He rests his hands against the other man’s thighs, rubbing soothing circles with his thumbs.

“Well, we’ll have to wait and see what the hearts tell us to do,” Drake teases with a much more suggestive smile.

* * *

_ But darling how the times have changed _

_ Those sugared words have lost their ways _

_ If only it was simple _

_ As it was back then _

* * *

Launchpad is lying alone and still, head cushioned by a pillow covered in a case with a thread count higher than some nations GDPs, just starting to doze off when he notices the small box on the bedside table. Blinking sleepily, he squints to make sure he’s seeing what he thinks he’s seeing. There is a pink heart taking up most of one side with the words “To” and “From” printed on the cardboard, the space beside the text blank.

“Is that a box of candy hearts?”

“Hm?” The voice of the other man comes from across the room, too distracted to even process Launchpad’s question. He doesn’t have time to lounge in bed and enjoy the post-sex afterglow, he has places to be, people to talk to, things to do. It’s amazing, honestly, how hard of a pounding he can take to only be back on his feet, fully composed, minutes later. It’s as if he hadn’t just been on his hands and knees screaming for more just ten minutes ago.

“On the bedside stand. Where did you get a box of candy hearts? It’s May.”

“Oh, those,” Gyro Gearloose glances behind himself in the mirror, comb in hand, to see what Launchpad is referring to. The man must go through a jar of pomade a week to keep that pompadour in place. “They were in my suit jacket and I just forgot about them entirely until I went to the theatre on Saturday. They’re from Valentine’s. I’m sure you’d never guess who gave them to me.”

“The way you talk about him,” Launchpad groans, turning to sit up. The silken blankets pool around his waist, exposing his bare body to the cool bedroom air. Gyro doesn’t like the idea of sweat; he keeps the bedroom painfully frigid whenever Launchpad stops by for a roll in his expensive sheets. “I think you just don’t want to admit that you like him back.”

“If I liked him back, I would have asked him out five years ago,” Gyro scowls, touching up the bounce of his hair with his fingertips. “Instead of letting the idiot babble on incessantly whenever a new study on the benefits of interspecies dating comes out.”

“Come on now,” Launchpad says jovially. He glances around the bed, trying to remember where he tossed his phone. “Fenton’s a great guy. I think you should just give him a chance. He could be good for you.”

“You know I don’t do relationships,” Gyro snorts. He picks up his hat and places it meticulously on his head, tilting it back so it fits just so. “I’m fifty, I’m too old to deal with this crap.”

“You’re never too old to find love,” Launchpad counters. He finds his phone under one of the pillows and checks his notifications, making sure he hasn’t missed any messages. There is only one and it’s from Dewey, some meme that Launchpad is getting too old to understand. He presses the button to lock the screen. “Relationships are what make life worth living.”

“Speaking of which,” Gyro asks, turning to smile sardonically at the nude man in his bed. He looks so composed, sometimes it is difficult to see him and imagine him as a sexual creature. God knows it had taken years for Launchpad to see him that way. “How is that boyfriend of yours doing?”

The nonchalance from Launchpad’s voice is gone instantly

“You know the rule,” he says lowly, meeting Gyro’s eyes. “We don’t talk about Drake when I’m here.”

“My apologies,” Gyro replies with a flippant wave of his hand. “I thought we were taking turns butting into each other’s love lives. I’m heading out now. If you plan on staying for a while, please try not to walk around with your dick out where Gloria can see it. You nearly gave the poor girl a heart attack last time.”

* * *

_ I remember you back then _

_ Your crooked teeth and stupid grin _

_ You always called me lovely _

_ You always seemed to care _

* * *

By the time Launchpad arrives at the tower, Drake has changed from his costume into an oversized hoodie. He is curled up in the corner of the couch, ready for an evening in with just himself, a tumbler of whiskey, and an SVU marathon on the TV. He hears Launchpad arrive before he sees him, yelling from downstairs, calling out his name.

“Drake! Are you here?”

“I’m in the living room, LP,” he calls back, already pulling his hood up to try to cover his face. But it isn’t enough. The moment the larger man appears, his eyes widen, and he rushes to Drake’s side. Before he knows what’s happening, Launchpad is on his knees, reaching for him. His large, thick fingers are agonizingly soft against his skin. Drake has to resist leaning into his touch as if he were a needy housecat.

“Your face!” He sounds so horrified. Drake can’t blame him; he’s seen himself in the mirror and knows how bad he looks. He’s as red and raw looking as a pile of pulverized ground beef.

“I know,” Drake grimaces, turning away, shaking the hands from his face. He pulls at the strings of his sweatshirt, tightening the hood. “I’m sorry, I tried my best to keep him from getting the Solego Circuit plans, but he was so strong.”

“I don’t care about the plans,” Launchpad insists, his hands heavy on Drake’s shoulders. “Well, I mean, I do. But not right now. You must be in so much pain. Can you even open your eye? Do you think it’s permanently damaged? Do you have a concussion?”

“Launchpad,” Drake interrupts, smiling a little because it’s kind of nice to have somebody who cares about him this much. “I’m fine. Really. I’ve survived much worse.”

“Did you at least disinfect your cuts? Or put some ice on your eye? Where is your first aid kit?” Launchpad demands to know, all but ignoring Drake’s attempt to brush off his concern. His voice is so, so genuine. Something Drake isn’t used to after a decade in showbiz. “Pull down your hood, I need to get a better look at your face.”

Drake grimaces and shakes his head, telling Launchpad he would prefer to keep the hood up. It takes several minutes of back and forth between them before he finally gives in and lowers it, exposing the full extent of his injuries. The bruises, cuts, abrasions. He’s slapped on a few bandages, but they make the whole illusion even worse, lending him the appearance of a badly abused, falling apart rag doll.

“I know,” he apologizes, wringing his hands in his lap when he sees the look at his friend’s face. “I look like a ghoul.”

“You don’t,” Launchpad says. He touches Drake’s face again, using gentle nudges to guide him as he tilts his head this way and that so that he can examine his wounds. “Your cheek is bleeding pretty badly still. It might need stitches. Can I remove the bandage and take a look?”

“It’s gross. Under the bandage, the skin sort of…ripped off. Hanging from a flap. I pressed it back down but you don’t want to see it.” Drake says, anxiously.

He doesn’t want anybody to see him like this, beaten down, repulsive. Especially not Launchpad. Launchpad is…different. He’s so handsome. And not in the fake, plastic Hollywood manner that Drake’s old boyfriends had been. He is almost too muscular to fit the movie ideal and his beak is far too big and his teeth are a little crooked. Yet he doesn’t need all the chemical peels and Botox injections like the stars need. His beauty is so deep, so natural. Drake knows he doesn’t possess that sort of beauty, he needs hair products and nice clothes and sometimes a little makeup and even then he’s mediocre at best.

“Nothing about you can gross me out,” Launchpad promises already carefully peeling off the bandage. Drake winces, resisting the urge to pull away. “And you don’t look like a ghoul, either. You’re a gorgeous man and a few cuts isn’t going to change that.”

“Gorgeous?” Drake laughs suddenly at the use of that word to describe him. “Me? Gorgeous? With my big beak and big feet and-”

“Stop it,” Launchpad interrupts him. He finishes removing the bandage and sets it aside. “You know you’re gorgeous. I’m sure you’ve been told that a billion times. You are a retired actor. People don’t become famous by being plain-looking.”

“Well, I never did become famous, did I?” Drake chuckles. He reaches up to cover his swollen eye, self-conscious, but stops, lowering his hand. He sighs and slowly looks up, meeting his partner’s gaze. “I guess I am being a bit vain. This sort of thing, the bruises and black eyes, it sort of comes with the jobs, doesn’t it? I’ll have to get used to looking like this and scaring all the little children with my face.”

“Bruises always fade,” Launchpad promises. “Quicker if you take care of them right. You’re right, that is one bad scrape.”

“Fine,” Drake rolls his one good eye and slumps back against the couch, crossing his arms across his chest. “First aid kit is in the bathroom, under the sink. But don’t get used to this. I’m not going to let you play doctor with me every time I get a cut on my face.”

“Oh yes you are,” Launchpad says cheerfully, climbing to his feet to go get the kit. The bathroom is just off the living room and he continues to reprimand Drake from the small room, his voice echoing against the tiles as he yells back. “I don’t care if you get a paper cut on your finger, I’ll be here to patch you up. And you’re going to be a good patient if you want your lollypop at the end of your checkup.”

“Do you actually have a lollypop on you?” Drake asks him, skeptically, as he returns with the little white box of supplies. “I guarantee you, there isn’t one in that kit.”

“The lollypop can be whatever you want it to be,” Launchpad clarifies in one of his odd philosophical moments. “It’s a metaphorical lollypop.”

“Can a lollypop be a,” Drake begins. His voice shakes and he pauses for a moment, trying to will the inner strength to continue. Launchpad is still hovering over him, seemingly as big as the tallest skyscraper in St. Canard. “Can the lollypop maybe be a kiss?”

“No,” Launchpad says, shaking his head. His shadow all but engulfs Drake but that single word is blacker than the darkest shadow in all existence to Drake’s ears. For that half-second before Launchpad continues that is, leaning down with his large, gentle hand cupping Drake’s cheek. “I’d hate to start a precedent where we are only allowed to kiss if you are in pain. I might end up shoving you in front of a car one day just to get more of them. Let’s say kisses are more like the bowl of mints on the receptionist’s desk, free and endless.”

“Ow,” Drake mutters a few seconds later. “I forgot about the bruise on my beak.”

* * *

_ But candy hearts, they disappeared _

_ As time went on,  _

_ your words weren't clear _

_ You said you'd always love me _

_ You said you'd always be there _

* * *

His first instinct is to call Launchpad. Almost since he first donned the suit that has been his protocol. Clutching an arm around his middle, Drake dials his boyfriend’s number and holds his phone against his ear as it rings and rings and rings.

“ _Hey, you’ve reached Launchpad McQuack, I’m busy right now but if you_ -”

He hangs up the phone and lets his arm drop to his side as he takes a few deep breaths. Every inhale sends pain shooting down his side. His hand is wet, warm with his own blood. Droplets fall slowly yet persistently from his fingers, dripping onto the concrete, the sound persistent and distracting as a leaky sink.

He needs to handle this himself. He doesn’t have anybody to help him. He is alone.

The kid is young. A teenager. He wears one of the uniforms of the St. Canard prep school boys, blue and black with his tie always neatly knotted around his neck. Despite his age, he invariably has what Drake needs and Drake thinks, irrationally, that is better to buy it from some high schooler than some gang member.

Not that he actually buys his goods. Drake turns a blind eye to his little part-time business and the kid gives him what he needs. Drake has no idea where he gets his supply but the pills always come in official orange pharmaceutical bottles with names like Jane and Dorothy and Wilfred on the labels.

“Hey, Oxy!” The kid greets him like they’re old friends. The early morning sun gives him an absurdly wholesome glint in his eyes. “I wasn’t expecting you for another week. Burning through them these days, aren’t you?”

“I’m not as young as I used to be,” Drake gripes, visibly limping as he approaches the teenager. If the kid notices him leaking bodily fluids he doesn’t acknowledge it. He’s packed the stab wound right below his ribs with torn off strips from his cape for now. “You try jumping from a five-story building when you’re nearly forty and not feeling it. Just give me the stuff.”

“I wasn’t complaining,” the kid swears. He hands Drake the bottle of Oxycodone. “Just concerned about your health, my dude. If you’re in that much pain I can get you some harder stuff. Or a back-alley surgeon from the looks of it.”

Drake shakes his head. He’s not a drug abuser, he’s a superhero. Being a superhero is dangerous and painful and he can’t run to the doctor every time he pulls a muscle or fractures a bone. Besides, he doesn’t need anybody. He’s the lone terror that flaps in the night and he can take care of himself.

The boy watches him as he immediately pops one of the pills in his mouth, swallowing it dry with a painful grunting noise. The three blocks he had staggered to reach the school have left him shaking with pain and exhaustion; he leans against the brick walls of the building beside him and closes his eyes, resting his shoulder and head against the rough wall. He just wants to sleep. He hopes he isn't going into shock.

“I gotta get to class,” the boy says in a voice that sounds genuinely apologetic. “Do you need, like, an ambulance or something?”

“I just need these pills to kick in,” Drake sighs, not opening his eyes. “Go ahead, get to class. And keep your nose clean.”

“Of course,” the kid replies casually. “I never use my own stuff, that’d cut into my profits. Don’t like, die or anything, dude.”

Drake waits until he’s back in the tower before he assesses the situation. The hole in his side is still dribbling blood, slowly, but it gives like a dam when he pulls the cape fragments away. His shirt is stuck against him still, parts of it seemingly jammed inside the wound, glued on with dried blood. Drake swallows another one of the pills and waits fifteen minutes before grabbing the hem of his top and yanking it quickly over his head. Just a handful of years ago he would have screamed at the horrific pain. Today, he breathes heavily and clenches his fists, waiting for the agony to subside.

Shirt fibers are stuck in the raw hole in his body. He picks out the fibers with a pair of tweezers and flushes it thoroughly with hot water. The edges of the wound remind him of a gutted fish, white and frayed, but it’s not as bad as he had feared. He’s still bleeding but it’s more of a trickle than a flood. He sanitizes the stab wound with a generous amount of alcohol. It burns like the fire of Hell but once you’ve been in Hell so many times you begin to get used to it. At least the hole is small enough butterfly stitches are sufficient. He’s had to use the needle and thread in the past and it’s not a pleasant experience.

Once the stitches are in place, Drake wraps his entire middle with a generous amount of snowy white gauze. It’s so bright that it accentuates the creamy tint of his own feathers. Dazedly, he thinks of Launchpad and how his feathers always match the gauze, the same bright, immaculate hue.

“I look like a mummy that somebody got bored rolling up halfway through,” Drake mutters to himself as he inspects his completed work in the full-length bathroom mirror. “That, or a Victorian woman who doesn’t know how to use a corset.” But at least the gauze is still white and not spotting bits of red. Yet.

He takes an antibiotic and a third Oxycodone before retiring to his bed. The day passes quickly in a haze of pain and heat. He awakens from a fever dream where he is being stabbed in the side by a group of feral pigs. His sheets are soaked with sweat and when he checks in the mirror the gauze looks like some perverse Rorschach test, his blood painting demonic images on the cloth. He downs some aspirin with an entire glass of water and chases it with another opiate pill before changing the bandages, making sure once more to clean and disinfect the wound.

He doesn’t know how long he sleeps. Hours or days.

The ringing of the phone awakens him from his drug-induced slumber.

“I’m going to be a bit late,” Launchpad’s voice apologizes on the other end. “Mr. McDee took an impromptu trip to the mountains today. We’re about to head back home in about an hour.”

“I’m not going out tonight,” Drake mumbles, voice thick, tongue heavy in his mouth. He feels like he’s floating, his head is heavy yet he feels nothing beneath himself. “Not feeling well right now. Gonna rest up.”

“You okay?” Launchpad asks. “You sound off.”

“Just woke up,” Drake excuses, reaching blindly on the bedstand in hopes of finding a drink. “Got stabbed last night. Didn’t hit anything, I’ll be fine in a few days.”

“I’ll come over anyway,” Launchpad says. “I can make you some soup and keep you company.”

“Don’t bother,” Drake says. “I’m just trying to sleep it off. I would be rotten company.”

“Well, if you’re sure…”

“I’ll see you later,” Drake says, already turning off his phone. He tosses it aside and reaches for his pillow. His eyes feel so heavy.

Funny how Launchpad once acted like him getting a black eye was the end of the world.

* * *

_ I'm sorry dear, I've gone astray _

_ The candy hearts are on their way _

_ They used to make you smile _

_ But now they've made you sad _

* * *

The day Drake overdoses, Launchpad is not there. He should be, but he isn’t. He is in bed with Gyro when he receives the message. The older man has the stamina of somebody half his age and nearly an hour passes before Launchpad finally gets around to checking his phone.

“Drake is in the hospital,” he stammers, already reaching for his discarded pants on the floor. “I- What hospital? How can I find him if I don’t know what hospital? Why didn’t he tell me what hospital?”

“Who called you?” Gyro asks. He’s lying on his stomach on the bed, looking up at Launchpad with a concerned yet thoughtful expression on his face. Always level-headed. “And what happened to him?”

“Ov, overdose,” Launchpad says. “And, um. Fenton. Fenton called. He found him, I guess.”

“Give me a minute to get dressed,” Gyro says, already pulling out his phone and going through his contacts. “I’ll go with you. Fenton? Yeah, I heard. Where are you?”

When they arrive at the hospital, Fenton is there waiting for them, pacing the waiting room like an expectant father. His eyes are bloodshot and his hair is nearly standing straight up as if he’s been running his fingers through it for hours. He all but throws himself into Gyro’s arms.

“I stopped by to upgrade the software on the computer and he was just lying there in bed with vomit on his face. Nothing I did would wake him up. I was so scared. I couldn’t call them to come get him at the tower so I had to change into my suit and fly him to the hospital then change out of my suit before I carried him in. What if I messed up doing that? I should have just let them come get him from the tower.”

“Shush, you did the right thing,” Gyro assures, stroking his hair, smoothing it down. “They wouldn’t have been able to get an ambulance up into the tower. I’m sure flying him straight to the hospital was the quickest way.”

Seeing a nurturing Gyro Gearloose would be a sight to see in normal circumstances. But Launchpad has other things to worry about for the time being.

“They said he’ll be okay,” Fenton tells him as they wait for the doctor. Gyro is holding one of his hands. He looks about as distraught as Launchpad feels but he sits there, too numb to show it. “It appears to be accidental. Pain killers. He’s always in so much pain…”

“He is?” Launchpad asks, breaking out of his numb silence.

“How could he not be?” Fenton asks, seemingly mortified by Launchpad’s question. “He gets beaten up on a nearly daily basis. They said he has a broken arm, two fractured ribs, and a mild infection in a cut on his leg right now.”

Launchpad had known about the injured arm, but the ribs are news to him. When did that happen? He tries to remember the last time he had even gone out on patrol with him. Nearly a week. How has he gone nearly a week without seeing his own boyfriend?

Yet he had been with Gyro when this happened.

Drake is asleep when he goes to see him but his eyes flutter open when Launchpad touches his wrist. His eyes are so swollen. His feathers look almost gray and he isn’t sure if it’s the lighting or not. In no way does Drake portray the image of a healthy duck,

“Hey, LP,” Drake greets him with a fond smile. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Hey, DW. I, uh. I guess we had a close one, huh?”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Drake says, chuckling quietly. He attempts to sit up but that little movement leaves him breathless, arms shaking. He falls back against his pillow, panting. “God. I feel like crap. I recommend avoiding overdosing on opiates.”

“Didn’t plan on it,” Launchpad gets out shakily. He feels like he’s on the verge of tears but he needs to be strong for his boyfriend. “Drake, how long have you been on prescription pain killers?”

Drake just shakes his head. He closes his eyes again.

“LP, I’m too tired to talk right now. I think I need to sleep.”

“Sleep,” Launchpad says, reaching out to touch his hand. He stops when he notices the IV jutting out of the back of it. Awkwardly, he rubs his palms together, trying to figure out what to do with his own hands, the sight of the needle making him uneasy. “I’ll just be right here, watching over you.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. McQuack, but visiting hours for non-family members ends in five minutes,” a voice startles him from the doorway. He jumps, turning to see a nurse walking in. “Just here to give you your five-minute warning. You can visit anytime between ten and five tomorrow.”

“But I’m his partner,” Launchpad protests. “We’ve been together for nearly a decade. You have to let me stay the night with him.”

“Are you two married?” It isn't a prying question, if they're family he would probably be allowed to stay with him.

But they're not married. They should be. They’ve talked about it. Or they did, rather, years ago. When’s the last time the topic came up? Why didn’t they get married? Why aren’t they married? He thinks about lying to her but what if she asks for proof?

“Well, no-”

“Launchpad,” Drake interrupts quietly. “It’s fine, go home. I’m just going to be sleeping anyway. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He only got to see Drake for less than ten minutes! 

Gyro and Fenton are gone when he returns to the waiting room. Launchpad feels happy for them, the signs clear that Gyro may finally be ready for what Fenton has been offering for years, but Launchpad can’t help but feel extremely alone in the harsh lighting of the hospital waiting room. The people in reception don't even spare a glance at him. How can they stand these lights day in, day out?

There is a small shop near the front of the hospital that sells gifts – stuffed animals, flowers, gift baskets. That sort of thing. If he can’t stay the night with him, he can at least give him something to make up for it. What do you give somebody as a “Sorry I wasn’t there to save you from accidentally almost killing yourself” present?

Nearly a week from Valentine’s Day, there are a number of romance-themed baskets. He finds one with a small heart balloon and a little white bear. It seems sort of cheesy, the sort of present he would have given Drake ten years ago but now screams “middle school dance date.” He almost moves on, eyeing a basket full of fancy cheeses, when he spots the little box of candy hearts.

“Huh, candy hearts,” he says quietly, picking up the little box. They’re hospital themed words. The package shows words like “Get Well” and “Thinking of You” on them. Not the most romantic sentiments. "When was the last time..."

“Can I help you with anything?” The store clerk asks walking up to him, perhaps annoyed that he removed an item from the nicely decorated basket. Or maybe he looks like a loiterer.

“Oh, uh, I’ll talk this basket,” Launchpad says before he decides if he actually wants it or not. He slips the candy back in, afraid of upsetting the cashier. “You deliver to the rooms, right?”

“Yes, I can have it arranged to a specific room, do you have the number?”

* * *

_ It never was about the words _

_ I listened for the things unheard _

_ But hearts cannot be changed _

_ If words are in the way _

* * *

“I knew when I saw them, they weren’t Gyro’s, they would just fall off him, you know? And I just remember you bought him a pair like that for some holiday so I asked Gyro and… I just thought you should know. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s, it’s fine,” Drake assures his old friend. He’s staring at the stupid heart-print underwear in his hands, thinking to himself that he should feel shocked, betrayed probably. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t feel anything. Why isn’t he feeling anything? “Thank you for telling me.”

“Gyro assures me they won’t be seeing each other anymore,” Fenton continues. “We’re, um…”

“I’m happy for you two,” Drake mumbles. “I just, I think I need to be alone for a bit.”

Fenton nods. He stands up from the chair beside the hospital bed, groaning as if he had the joints of a seventy-year-old. He glances around the room.

“Do you need anything before I go?" Fenton asks, looking extremely uncomfortable about the current situation. Drake can't blame him, there is so much wrong with this moment. "Something to drink? Help to the bathroom?”

“I’m recovering from an OD, not a broken leg,” Drake reminds him, forcing a friendly smile across his face. He tucks the boxers back into the little bag that Fenton had presented them in. “I’ll be fine. Thank you for stopping by though, the sweet bread is appreciated.”

Fenton nods again. He rocks on his heels like a naughty kid in some old-timey cartoon.

“Old family recipe," he explains cordially. "M’ma taught me how to bake it when I was a kid. Make sure to eat it quickly, it goes stale after just a couple days.”

“I will,” Drake promises, faking a yawn. Fenton gets the hint and excuses himself immediately.

Alone. Again. The sounds of the machines beeping and muffled voices on the other side of the door his only company. Drake takes out the underwear again and looks at them, quickly getting lost in his thoughts. He's remembering when he gave them to Launchpad and how he had never intended him to actually wear them. Years later and the hearts have faded from deep red to a shade of dark pink. And apparently, he wears them when he goes and hooks up with other guys behind his boyfriend's back.

Drake wishes he could feel something about the knowledge. There's something profoundly depressing knowing that the man you once loved is incapable of stirring the smallest emotion inside you.

Launchpad arrives at nearly noon. He’s sweating and out of breath and gives an excuse about being called out for an early morning flight by Scrooge.

“It was at dawn,” he gets out. “Scrooge said it’d only take-”

Well, at least he knows he wasn't with Gyro. Drake wonders if there have been others. Girls, maybe. Drake wouldn't be surprised if there had been girls, most of Launchpad's exes had been female.

“It’s fine,” he replies quietly. He looks out the window instead of at Launchpad. He doesn't want to look at him right now. Looking at him sounds too painful. Not because of what he did but because of what they lost. “I’m used to you not being here.”

Launchpad grimaces. He grabs the chair at the side and pulls it close to the chair.

“I’m sorry, you know I’d never leave your side if I could. I didn’t even want to leave the hospital last night. Uh, I saw you got my basket?”

“What? Oh yeah,” Drake says, looking at the untouched, pre-made gift on the windowsill. It’s wrapped up in purple shrink-wrap, tight and shiny still. It looks like a basket made for a woman, not a man with four decades under his belt. When the nurse had delivered it last night he had thought it was a mistake at first, a mix up in room numbers. There would have been a time when Launchpad would have called the local pizza parlor and had them deliver directly to his room instead.

“You haven’t opened it,” Launchpad observes, his voice tight with repressed pain. 

“I’ve been sleeping a lot,” Drake shrugs listlessly.

“That’s okay,” Launchpad says, jumping to his feet. His legs are so long he makes it across the small hospital room in half a dozen strides. “Let’s open it now.”

He sets the wicker basket in Drake’s lap and plops back down in his chair, watching as the smaller duck unenthusiastically opens it. He shows no outward emotion as he removes the card and bear and balloon and various other trinkets and sweets. Launchpad points out one small box in particular and tells him to make sure and not miss it. He stares blankly at the box of candy hearts in his hands.

“Candy hearts.”

“Yeah!” Launchpad says excitedly, beaming at him, all but bouncing in his seat. He probably would have been ten years ago. “You love candy hearts.”

“I hate candy hearts,” Drake replies, turning a reproachful eye to him. He feels mildly annoyed at him for not knowing this fact but it wasn't like it was something he had ever mentioned to him. He had always made sure not to. But he feels like he needs to take some of his brewing anger out on him right now. “They taste like Necco wafers except worse because they’re so thick.”

“Oh,” Launchpad says, deflating. He slumps down into his chair, leaning over with his hands clasped together in front of him. “I, you used to like when I gave you them.”

“I always used to feed them to you,” Drake says to him, pointing out something the other man should have picked up on his own. “I never ate them. I just liked reading the words on them.”

“Well, they still have words on them,” the larger duck says, brushing off the bristling hostility in Drake's voice. He holds out his hand. “Give me the box, I’ll open it and we can read them together.”

Drake shakes his head, tucking the candies back into the box. He hands it to Launchpad who takes it, a sad look on his face.

“I’m not the biggest fan of hearts anymore,” he tells Launchpad. Then he grabs the small paper bag from the bedside table and tosses it to him. “So here, you can have these back, too.”

Launchpad looks confused as he opens the bag and looks down at his faded underwear in the bag. He glances around as if afraid somebody would walk in and be offended by the sight of his boxers.

“My underwear?” He asks, perplexed.

“You forgot them at Gyro’s last night,” Drake clarifies, speakingly clearly and coldly, careful to conceal any emotion in his voice.

Launchpad’s eyes widen. Within seconds, he’s on his feet, grabbing at Drake’s hand. He is quick to shake him off.

“You don’t understand-”

“LP, stop it,” Drake sighs, closing his eyes in defeat. He takes a few seconds to breathe, in and out, and opens them again, meeting Launchpad’s eyes. “I’m not angry. I’m not even surprised. I think we’ve both known for a long time this isn’t working out.”

“Drake, no.” Launchpad's voice is so desperate. Drake steels himself. He knew this wasn't going to be easy but if he gives in now it'll just make things harder later.

“Yes,” he says. “It’s not even about you cheating on me. People cheat for reasons. I don’t blame you for wanting sex. It’s been so long since I wanted to.”

“But we know the reason now,” Launchpad objects, pleadingly. “The drugs, of course, you weren’t in the mood.”

“It’s more than that," Drake explains. He gives in and reaches out to pay the other man's hand sympathetically. Launchpad grabs at it, squeezing hard. "I’m not happy. I haven’t been in a long time, and neither have you.”

“I haven’t been unhappy,” the other man insists, his grip so firm that Drake forcefully has to pull his hand back to avoid having his fingers crushed. "I've never been unhappy with you."

“But you haven’t been happy,” Drake points out the words unspoken between the lines. “It’s not just you. It’s everything. I’m getting older and my body can’t do the things it used to. I, I miss my old life. I’ve been thinking about returning to the film industry for a while now. Before it’s too late. I might still have a chance to make a name for myself but not if I put it off any longer.”

“I could go with you!” He’s wiping at his eyes. Any minute now and he'll be sobbing. Drake hates to do this to him but he can't do this anymore. He can't continue to waste his life on a loveless relationship. He wants to live.

“You’d never be happy in Hollywood. Everything is too plastic for you. And, to be perfectly honest, I don’t want you there with me. I want a fresh start. Would you really want to waste your life on an ex-Darkwing?”

“You’ll always be Darkwing Duck,” Launchpad says defiantly.

“I don’t want to be Darkwing Duck,” Drake clarifies slowly, giving him time to understand what he's saying. “I want to be Drake Mallard. I want to be recognized as myself, not as a fictional superhero ripoff.”

“You’re more than that!"

Drake just shakes his head.

* * *

_ I don't want you _

_ Just to love me _

_ For what I do _

_ For what I do _

_ I can't love you _

_ Like I've told you _

_ If only we knew _

_ That love was never meant for me and you _

* * *

The new apartment overlooks the ocean. In a way, it reminds Drake of his old lair in St. Canard. He had always been able to smell the salt on the bay. But it had always been so cold and windy up there, up north. Sometimes the air whipping around the Ratcatcher as he drove out of the tower had felt like ice against his skin.

The weather is different here. Warm. Dry despite the proximity of the sea. He is close enough to see the sun sparkling on the waves but up here in the hills he is still a good mile from the actual shore.

"Where do you want this?" The voice of one of the movers calls to Drake. He turns around to see the burly young man holding up a gift basket wrapped in purple plastic.

"That was in the moving truck?" Drake asks, confused by the sight of it.

"Yeah, in the very back corner," the man confirms.

Drake stares across the room at the basket. A relic from a past life. One he wishes, no, needs, to forget.

"Can you toss it in the dumpster on your way out?"

"It looks untouched," the man points out. "Do you mind if I give it to my daughter?"

"Oh, no, that's fine," Drake nods. "Um, throw out the candy hearts though. We were playing with them, don't want her getting our germs."

Once they're gone, he triple locks the door and returns to the balcony. The air is warm and fragrant with the smell of jasmine. Below him the streets are bustling with people, so many people. People walking, people driving cars, people walking dogs, buying tacos from trucks, running with headphones over their ears, selling flowers on street corners, selling fruit with chili on another corner, trimming hedges, waiting for the bus. People just living.

It feels good. Not being alone.

* * *

_ If only we knew _

_ That candy hearts could not make love come true _

* * *

“Do you think you can modify the Ratcatcher?”

“Modify it how?”

“My beak isn’t that big,” Dewey explains. He’s been dancing around the tower in his new Darkwing Duck costume for the last hour, playing with various gadgets and taking notes on what he wants added to and removed from the hideout. Fresh out of college, Dewey had snapped up this opportunity the moment Launchpad had presented it to him. “It needs to be smaller.”

“Yeah, I think I can do that,” Launchpad agrees, wiping sweat from his brow. “Help me move this old bookcase, it’s too big for me to maneuver on my own.”

“Oh, yeah, sure. Thanks, LP, for all your help.”

“Well, new generation, new Darkwing,” Launchpad says gruffly. Dewey is still a small duck and even in his forties, Launchpad takes the brunt of the weight as they pull out the bookshelf.

“Look at all the junk that rolled under this thing,” Dewey says, crouching down to poke through the pile of dust and garbage. “Here’s a screw and a smoke bomb and a candy heart.”

“A candy heart?”

“Yeah, here,” Dewey says, carefully picking the candy out of the debris and handing it up for Launchpad to take. "Don't eat it, it's really gross."

It’s a purple one. For a moment he thinks the words may have somehow worn down over the years but it's just the blank side. Launchpad turns it around and holds it up to the open window, the blue-black sky of St. Canard looming behind the text.

" _Forever_ ," he reads quietly.


End file.
